I had stayed again at the cottage in July, for some days. At the end
of that month I had gone to France, as was my custom, and a week later
had written to Mary. It was William that answered this letter, telling
me of Mary's death and burial. I returned to England next day. William
and I wrote to each other several times. He had not left his home. He
stayed there, `trying,' as he said in a grotesque and heart-rending
phrase, `to finish a novel.' I saw him in the following January. He
wrote to me from the Charing Cross Hotel, asking me to lunch with him
there. After our first greetings, there was a silence. He wanted to
talk of--what he could not talk of. We stared helplessly at each
other, and then, in the English way, talked of things at large.
England was engaged in the Boer War. William was the sort of man whom
one would have expected to be violently Pro-Boer. I was surprised at
his fervour for the stronger side. He told me he had tried to enlist,
but had been rejected on account of his eyesight. But there was, he
said, a good chance of his being sent out, almost immediately, as one
of the Daily --'s special correspondents. `And then,' he exclaimed, `I
shall see something of it.' I had a presentiment that he would not
return, and a belief that he did not want to return.
Pages:
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246